


Yours, Bilbo

by misternorth



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, Everybody Lives, Letters, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Thilbo, bagginshield, not really epistolary though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-11 11:40:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3326096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misternorth/pseuds/misternorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after the battle of five armies, Thorin discovers a secret cache of letters Bilbo has been sending since his departure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Thorin Oakenshield, King of Erebor, is... snoring.

It wasn't an uncommon thing, really - in these great meetings with the elven ambassadors from Mirkwood, amidst debates about trade and barbs being thrown back and forth across the great stone table, the King under the Mountain had occasion, now and then, to doze lightly. None seem to notice, so immersed in heated discussions are they, save occasionally someone coming to refill his ale, or Balin, when the old dwarf coughs and gives his shin a sharp kick under the table.

 _That_ usually did the trick.

"Mmgh, too much!" he barks, prompting both elf and dwarf to glance, surprised, down the table.

"B... but your majesty, we have already moved past trade, to the talk of the new dwarf ambassador to the wood elves." A younger dwarf, his beard barely an inch or two past his chin, stares at Thorin in what seems a mingling of abject horror and confusion. For his part, Thorin simply lifts a large hand, scrubbing it across one side of his face, and grunts.

"Very well, carry on. I must attend to other things." His voice is still thick with tiredness, and he slides off of his chair with a nod at Balin, heading out through the towering doors toward the maze of corridors into the royal wing. Here, at last, he exhales a long sigh, relief making his shoulders go just a bit slack as he trudges past the rooms of family - here Kili, here Fili, there the suite of rooms restored for Dis. At last he reaches out his hands, brushes his fingers over the chiseled stone pattern upon the wide double doors to his own suite, and pushes them open.

And there, in the middle of the room... stands Bofur, clutching a small wooden box, out of which crisply folded parchment pokes. The other dwarf blinks at him once and drops the box as if his hand are on fire, and the papers go tumbling out onto the floor in a great, butter-white flutter of papers. "Yer Majesty," he says, nodding his head once in deference to the king, before dropping to his knees and starting to scoop up the papers as fast as his arms will allow him.

Thorin stares at him for a moment, speechless, before closing the door behind him and stepping into the room. "What are you doing in my quarters, Bofur? My meeting was due to run for at least one more hour." There's a hard edge to his voice, annoyance or suspicion or a combination of the two, and he moves toward Bofur, reaching down for a piece of paper - only to have the other dwarf actually slap his hand away.

"Agh, sorry yer majesty... Was just working on something for... security... now you don't need to worry about these. Guard business," he adds quickly, hoping Thorin makes no mention of the fact that Bofur's the last to sensibly be on guard business. He reaches for the paper Thorin had sought and snatches it away, only to tuck it into the box. Thorin actually _growls_ at this, his nostrils flaring, and takes another step forward. He's still in full regalia, the crown glittering as the firelight catches it where it sits upon his head, the thick, soft blue robes padding an already bulky dwarven form. Even if he weren't king, Thorin would make a fearsome figure looming over Bofur as he does, and though the other dwarf is a warrior - and Thorin's friend - he cannot help the pause his king's growl gives him, nor the faint trill of worry that slithers its way down his spine.

"Thorin... ye must understand. It was for yer own good," Bofur begins, but no more does he protest the other dwarf's attempt to retrieve the papers - the entire box of them, eventually - from Bofur's arms. Thorin's dark brows draw down and his lip curls at Bofur - what could these be? Something about coin? A plot to overthrow him? Surely Bofur, of all people, would not seek to do harm to the line of Durin?

"Be gone." The words are nearly snarled, and Thorin stares at Bofur, unwavering, until the other bows his head, nodding, and rises to leave the room. Only when the door clicks shut does Thorin place the box of papers upon the end of his bed and reach down for one of the bits of folded parchment, straightening up and smoothing out the page as he walks toward the firelight. There, settling into the soft red armchair that recently arrived from Dale, he leans forward to read the words written in delicate, flourishing black ink.

 

 

 

>   
> _16 December 2952_
> 
> _My dearest Thorin,_
> 
> _Letter... my goodness, Thorin! Can it be so many? I believe we are at fifty three just now, though perhaps with all the snow settling upon the Shire I find my thoughts addled, mixed up with worries about how soon spring shall arrive and whether my perennials will bloom yet again this year. Lucky for you, there is just enough to tell you to keep this letter quite interesting - much better than the last one, in which I had to stoop to - of all things! - including a recipe for jam biscuits!_
> 
> _My Frodo - Thorin, you would be delighted, I think, to see how very big he has grown. He is chattering away as if born to do just that now, and I fear in no time he shall even outpace his Tookish cousin's penchant for naughtiness and babbling. The autumn harvest went quite well as you know - I believe I wrote you just last month, yes? - but ever since the incident with the pumpkins I have had no end of young Frodo trying to put his head into my vegetables and fruits. And sometimes he succeeds! I was sitting by the window, just two nights past, having a quiet smoke and working on one of my maps, when who should walk out of the kitchen but that little imp, his hands red as can be - and half a melon plunked right upon his noggin! It gave me QUITE the fright, you can imagine, but I tidied the boy up well enough and was able to salvage most of my kitchen, if not the departed melon. I suppose I should be grateful that the lad has a fondness for growing things, but I wonder if he doesn't have more Took in him than first he seemed. Mark my words, beloved, one day that boy will find trouble._
> 
> _You might be surprised to know that I made it down to Bree this past week-end, and had quite a thrill for myself once there: of all the sorts of people one might expect to encounter in The Prancing Pony, the last would be a dwarf - and one who should not the truth of how the ended, no less! His name was Garnock, as I recall, and he revealed himself as having hailed from the faraway Iron Hills; he was one of the many who joined you in battle, who followed Dain and fought against the orcs that horrible day. Like myself, he had heard of your... well, I'm certain you know, of course... but Thorin! Garnock had come to believe Dain himself fell that day, too. He had left the company of dwarves then, believing his kin lost and the king fallen, and has spent these long years wandering the mountains, until some months ago he came to settle in Bree, working for a jeweler cutting gemstones._
> 
> _Can you believe the luck! Of all the days for the poor fellow to wander into the Pony, he just so happened to be there the day I was taking supper before hunkering down for a night (I had to fetch some good cloth for a new winter cloak for Frodo you see - he's much bigger than he was when he first came to me!). Well, I set the poor dwarf straight about Dain, and don't you know he paid me for the thing - a beautiful blue sapphire, as large as my palm and as beautiful as anything! I believe he meant to set off back to Erebor, and he should be arriving there some months from now to serve King Dain. I don't know much about how dwarven afterlife goes, I suppose, but... he was a kind sort, and if you might look after him from time to time, just to be sure he arrives home safely, I think that would be quite fine._
> 
> _Frodo is babbling on about dinner now, so I must get to it. You are as ever always in my thoughts, and I hope, wherever you are, it is safe, and happy, and good._
> 
> _Yours,_  
>  _Bilbo_
> 
> _P.S._  
>  _It's a bit of a lie, you know... I needn't travel to Bree for the cloth, but I suppose even now I hope to hear word - of Balin or Dwalin, of Bofur's antics, or... of how your people are faring, managing even with the loss of you. I pray, however they are managing... it is better than I._

Thorin lifted his hand as his gaze drifted over the last words, let his fingers touch the corners of his eyes, his cheeks. Long moments had passed without the king realizing that tears fell, and although anger welled up within him, a fury so hot it made him want to clench the letter and throw it into the fire... this was _Bilbo's_ letter, and Bilbo's care, and if any would burn it would be those who had kept this from him. Carefully, as though the parchment were made of the most delicate glass, he placed the letter down upon his bed and turned, blue eyes blazing in the darkness. One word was roared before his hair was a storm of silver and black behind him, the dwarf king rushing out through the halls in search of the one who had, as far as Thorin was concerned, betrayed him.

"BOFUR!"


	2. Chapter 2

All manner of dwarven law falls away from his thoughts as he stalks through the chilly halls of Erebor. Crowds part wherever he comes upon them, the face of their king one of such fury as they have not yet beheld - indeed, a fury few but those dwarves who had reclaimed the mountain with him would know. Hatred boils in Thorin Oakenshield's blood, bubbles white hot and thick like a poison, a sickness settling over him, and the notion of trial, of process and law, all feel, in those moments, utterly irrelevant.

He is going to _kill_  Bofur, to throw him from the mountain and stare as his bones break upon the stony earth below.

At least... that is what he hopes to do. In practice, that first night, Thorin cannot even find Bofur. The dwarf seems to have vanished from the mountain entirely, and the guards, Thorin's kin, even Bifur and Bombur seem all to be unable to find the object of their king's ire.

"Why has he not been found! I'll have his head on a pike, and yours too if you are hiding him!" The words are bellowed out to every other guard who comes to report that Bofur is missing. At one point, stricken with anger, with grief, he actually storms into the kitchens and gathers up the front of Bombur's tunic and drags him in. Spittle flies from his mouth as he speaks, and his pupils are blown wide, so large there is only a faint blue sliver of color around them.

"If you have conspired with him, fiend... it will be your end as well. Mark my words Bombur - I will wipe out the whole miserable lot of you if it will deliver him to me. If you ally with him still, you betray your KING!" With a savage growl Thorin shoves Bombur back, and the other dwarf quickly hops a few extra steps out of the way of the taller dwarf, his hands both lofted up in quick relenting. He shakes his head, eyes round and wide and opens his mouth to speak - only to snap it shut abruptly and make a faint "hmph!" sound. Satisfied by the display, Thorin whips around and storms out, a yelping echoing down the hall as one of the guards is shoved backwards into the kitchen, the rumbling words echoing into the chamber along with him.

"FIND HIM!"

By the seventh day after the letters were discovered, Thorin's rage has settled, a quietly burning simmer that has him snapping at guards, ambassadors, and kin alike. Still, he's ceased the roaring - at least the incessant bit - and although he's not yet managed to return to the other letters and go through them, the dwarf has finally collected them up, tucked each carefully within a large oaken box he had brought out for them.

It's after an overlong meeting with councilors petitioning for a new mining shaft that he slips back into his bedroom at last, the heavy robe pulled off, boots kicked off to thud against the towering mahogany bedframe. He shuffles across priceless woven rugs to stand in front of the fireplace, staring blankly as the flames lick up, undulating in the darkness, the shadows in the room seeming longer, just now, then ever. Two scarred hands rise to scrub across a tired face, and Thorin shifts, slumping into the armchair beside the hearth.

"Ah, Bilbo. What have you done?" His eyes settle upon the chest where it rests on a table not a foot or two away, and he licks dry lips, nodding slowly.

"On with it then," he murmurs, his voice a little hoarse as he reaches out for the chest, pulls it toward him, and reaches in to pull out the letters. There are dozens of them - some pale, near milky-white, some slightly yellowed with age, all folded in the same neat, crisp lines that make him think of Bilbo and his nitpicking, finicky ways. There, at last, comes a smile, and he begins to sort in earnest, arranging them by date, the oldest here, until bit by bit a clear timeline emerges. He has to fight, just now, to keep from reading each letter as he lifts it; that would drive Bilbo mad, he knows, and although the hobbit may never know his letters were _read_ , Thorin is determined to do them as much justice as he is able.

In the end, there are forty-nine letters, including that sent by the hobbit most recently. Four missing, he thinks, if Bilbo's count had been correct - perhaps do to Bofur's scheming, or perhaps simply due to the nature of letter-writing; the shire is a massive distance from Erebor, and it's a miracle, Thorin thinks, that so many are even here, intact. At last he takes a few deep breaths, and reaches for the oldest bit of parchment, smoothing it out and turning it toward the firelight to read.

 

>   
>  _17 June 2943_
> 
> _Thorin,_
> 
> _It's a foolish thing to write you now, I know - I hate the words even as I put them to paper, find they only dig, dig, dig at the memory of you, at what I've lost. What we all have lost._
> 
> _Only a year has passed now since I've returned home, and yet it feels like no time at all. Gandalf and I have corresponded some - he has encouraged me to write this letter to you, to send it even, of all the absurd things a hobbit might do. A letter to a dead dwarf. But I find, even though your eyes will never fall upon these words, in a way it does let me feel a bit closer to you, as though death, and darkness, and the long, warm lands that now separate your body from mine are not so very vast._
> 
> _There is much I would have told you, had you yet lived and ruled Erebor when I returned home. I think, even without your forgiveness at the end... I might easily have written you anyway, to tell you of all the silly things that your hobbit friend has gotten up to in his silly green home. I might have written to you about how the whole Shire had thought me dead and gone, how I'd come home and had to track down half my belongings just to fill up my home again. It was no proper homecoming, Thorin, but... that is a story I might spend more time telling if I thought it would make you smile, or laugh, even in that begrudging, glowering way you usually do. Did, I suppose. This letter is not one meant for laughter, I'm afraid._
> 
> _Ah, my Thorin. How much you meant to me, yet I could never have told you then. That, I suppose, is the cruelest truth I have found in writing this letter - that only now, when you are gone, can I express to you the fullness of my heart, the way your presence colored and shaped every contour, every beat. I should like to have given myself up that horrible day, to have taken your place, if only to find the courage to tell you with my own last breath this wretched thing I find now I cannot be rid of._
> 
> _I love you, Thorin. A year later, with you cold in the ground and me cold above it, I still find myself stifled with it, choking on it. There were days, in the very beginning... when I simply went out to lay in my garden and close my eyes, and there, upon the soft, brown earth, I wished to fade away, slipping from this world - and the love of you, and the pain that love has wrought for me._
> 
> _Enough of that, now. I have said my part, the worst of it, and whatever good it may do me it is at least done. Those darkest moments have passed for me, at least - the bitter winter has given way to warmth again, and although I find no joy springing in me at the bursting flowers or the prospect of Lithedays ahead of me, I nonetheless continue on, breathing, and writing, and at least, for now, being. I know being a hobbit was never very impressive in your eyes, Thorin, but at the very least shall I continue to be just that._
> 
> _Yours,_   
>  _Bilbo_

 

By the last of it, Thorin's fist has found his mouth, and he is biting down, hard, to stifle sobs that threaten to spill forth. Tears which had fallen without thought days ago spring freely, wet and fat, staining his tunic where they land upon it. At last he gives up, and the letter is lifted up, cradled lovingly against his cheek as he rocks back and forth in the chair, yielding to the grief, and the loss, and to so many years stupidly destroyed due to simple mistakes of time and place. Words spill out from him, over and over, a chant or a prayer, maybe both.

"Make it right. Make it _right_. I swear to you, Bilbo," he chokes out, then murmurs, then at last whispers. It is the hobbit's name, and no other, which last passes the King of Erebor's lips before he succumbs to slumber that night.


	3. Chapter 3

Sleep that night is far from fitful for the king. Every hour it seems he's roused, memories of their journey together, fantasies about what might have been mingling as they rush back upon Thorin. He has found his dreams visited often enough by the honey-haired hobbit, but as time has slipped on, season giving steady way to season, they have pained him less and less, eased to a momentary pain that spikes up some nights, only to shimmer away in the morning and wait - sometimes days, often weeks or more.

But not tonight. These visions are vivid and unrelenting, as though the ten long years that have settled upon him since the battle were only dreams themselves. It had hardly been a kingly beginning, that late arrival, the gruff, few words he had been willing to offer the hobbit from that dark spring night in his hobbit-hole. Every biting word, every snarl or growl in the year that followed ate at him, seemed a hundred times more vicious in the dreams through which Thorin stumbled.

And then, of course... there were the _other_  dreams. Nothing like the torrid fantasies he'd had about the hobbit when he'd actually kept Bilbo's company, no - these were fantasies of a gentler sort. Laying in the green grass behind Beorn's house, Bilbo warm at his side as great, fat honeybees bob perilously through the air overhead. The halfling puffing out a billowing smoke ring from his pipe as the pair of them sit on one of the carved stone benches, on a hidden terrace high upon the mountain. He turns, the wind catching his golden curls and lifting them up a bit, and grins at Thorin.

"There's jam on your chin, Thor--"

Someone is at the door. Three loud knocks, and a pause - here of several moments. Three knocks again, and in the wake of another long wait, a voice calls out.

"Thorin? Open the door, cousin, or I'll do it for you." It's Balin, his words heavy with tired, tempered in their own way with the gentleness he's learned to use around Thorin these last many years. When no answer comes, the great oaken door opens, and Balin moves in, stands for a moment by the hearth and stares down at his king. Thorin's countenance is sour, disturbed as he is from one of the few, precious dreams that didn't leave him with clenched fists, crying out upon waking. The words linger only a moment... jam on your chin... before even these vanish from memory, and only the faint images remain as Balin takes a seat opposite him.

"Go away, I am busy today," Thorin grumbles at him, and only then does the letter leave his hands, tucked carefully into the chest. The pile remains, and he stares at it, combing his fingers through his beard and stewing quietly. Now and then he glances up at Balin, who remains patiently, two thick white brows arched at Thorin. At the expression, he snorts, shakes his head, and reaches for another letter. "I've reading to do. It is important."

Balin tilts his head forward and peers at Thorin over the rim of his spectacles, and only when Thorin has started gesturing toward the door with his free hand does he speak.

"Thorin... you're a mess, my friend." Balin holds up a hand when Thorin sets to growling, and shakes his head. "You smell as though you've not showered since you found the first of them, you're a ragged mess, and your attendants tell me the food is mostly ignored. Showing up for council meetings and sitting for court is not enough - we are worried about you, cousin. The _people_  are worried about their King."

Thorin glares at him, then lowers his eyes to the page.

 

 

> _9 December 2943_
> 
> _Thorin,_
> 
> _It's been a long while, so long I had resolved myself that, perhaps, old wounds had mended themselves. Six months since my last letter, and I find myself drawn yet again to this nonsense - perhaps it is the thick layer of snow that has wrapped itself about the shire, but more likely..._
> 
>  

A coughing. Thorin's eyes flicker upward, and Balin is staring at him expectantly.

"Well? What do you want, Balin? Can you not see there are grave matters to be dealt with?" Thorin asks, and finally, Balin rises. He takes one step forward... then two... then with a movement so fast that Thorin could not have seen it coming, Balin snatches the letter out of the king's hands - to be met with a roar unlike any he has heard for years.

"THORIN. Should I fetch Dis?" That, to be sure, seems to mollify Thorin; few in the kingdom, dwarf or dwarrowdam, are able to chastise anyone so thoroughly as the king's sister. It is said, after all, that she even made the elvenking's eyes water, some years back when she had chance to visit the Mirkwood on a goodwill mission. Thorin lifts both hands to rub his eyes, and his shoulders slump.

"He is out there still, Balin. With child now - with wife, too, no doubt."The tightness that swells in Thorin's throat has him pausing for a moment, his fingers curling at his sides, nails digging into his palms. "Thinking me dead, all this time. And Bofur - and perhaps even Bombur, or Bifur, or others! So many letters, Balin..." As he falls silent, he turns to the letters arranged on the table, drags his fingertips across them. From behind him Balin sighs, and he can feel the weight of the other man's hand falling gently upon his shoulder.

"And there will continue to be many when you have scoured yourself clean and eaten something, my old friend. And Bofur... Hm." Balin's brow furrows, and he chews his cheek for just a moment before pulling his hand away. The letter he's taken is placed back upon the pile, and he moves toward the door. "I'll have your attendants draw a bath and see that..." There's a pause - he's certainly not mentioning Bombur's name. "...someone sends a meal up from the kitchens. You'll have the day to yourself to read, aye, Thorin - but only a day. Erebor needs its king, and whatever else comes of this - would _he_  want to see you languish?" He pauses to let that sink in before disappearing into the hallway and closing the door behind him.

An hour later Thorin makes his way out of the bath, skin red from the heat, his hair hanging wet and wavy part-way down his back. He settles back down into his chair to find a table pulled up close, upon which a great silver platter ladden with food and drink has been arranged. He can tell, even without having seen the hands that prepared this, that Bombur crafted this array - plates and bowls are brimming with all of Thorin's favorite food and drink. "A plot, surely," Thorin mutters, but he partakes just the same, eating and drinking his fill for the first time in at least a week. When he's finished it's nearly mid-morning, and he takes a few moments to rise and dress before returning to the mount of papers. His chair is pushed back, and he pulls the lot of letters carefully down to the ground, at last reaching for that second one Balin had interrupted.

"Rude!" he mutters, but his ire is forgotten quickly as he moves nearer the fire and begins to read once more.

 

 

 

> _...more likely it is the last piece of my purloined goods - for we shall call them purloined, even if they were sold - coming home to me at last. It is a story still too silly to write to a king about, but... let us simply say I made use of a little of my treasure share this morning, and having gotten at last what I need I can fathom no more urgent use of the coin. Into my linen-closet it has gone, beneath mother's knitted shawls, the ones I've never managed to be rid of._
> 
> _Here also, you will surely know, the Yule holiday is upon us. Try as I may to feel festive and merry, the memory - likely of a yuletide nearly two years past, traveling with a company so busy the days merited nary a mention among us - lingers with me. How much it bothered me, Thorin, that we should be on a quest for your home, to have already survived so very many perils, and yet there was no joy to be found in your heart._
> 
> _All things seem harsher in hindsight, I suppose, harsher and clearer both. But my Thorin... if I had known then all that would have come to pass, let yourself be certain I'd have worked every moment to bring you such joy that your last breaths were easier, that I could remember naught but your laughter, and your light._
> 
> _And there I go, silly hobbit - calling you mine as though you ever were such. I suppose I should ask, permission or forgiveness both, but either way I shall have no answer for it. And so I will claim you all the same, and if one merry day we should meet in the next life, well, I hope you will forgive me then, and we both may laugh at my boldness._
> 
> _It is chilly tonight, Thorin, and I've yet to stoke the fires. Perhaps... perhaps I will make a habit of these letters yet. Mayhaps Gandalf had more wisdom in suggesting them than I'd thought._
> 
> _Yours,_   
>  _Bilbo_

And leave it, indeed, they both do; while the king has every intention of actually having tea - a habit he's only picked up in Bilbo's absence - somehow the morning gives way to late afternoon, and Thorin is still tending to the letters.

Half of them now, or a little more than, lay folded carefully and tucked back into the chest he has taken to thinking of as his letterbox; in addition to those letters, small tokens and trinkets have been pooled on the little table beside the chest. There's nothing of great value here, no, at least not monetary. A small satchel of seeds, sent at the beginning of late-winter planting, a little hand-drawn map of the shire, and - perhaps most inexplicably - a small silver spoon. They are mentioned, invariably, in the letters, the reasons for these tendered gifts, and although they are all sent more as memorials than anything he might practically use - for after all, the halfling has been certain of Thorin's death all these years - they nonetheless move the dwarf deeply, to the point that he has already made A Decision to start his own garden from the seeds.

"Surely a king can grow things!" Thorin declares as he tucks the seedpouch into the pile and reaches for another bit of parchment. Here he lingers just enough to glance toward the fire, now merely glowing embers, then toward he door, past which the long-cold tea has most certainly been carried away. He has pushed on through years now, great swathes of time vanishing before him as each new letter chisels away at the months and years. In the beginning, Bilbo had written sparsely - once, that first year after the battle, then twice a year for the next few years. Truly, it wasn't until the sixth year in when he began to write with any reliable frequency - and then, how often he wrote! For in the spring of the sixth year after the battle... Frodo had come into Bilbo's care. And that impossible hobbit had started the letter in just the way he might have supposed would set Thorin's blood to boiling.

 

 

 

> _21 March 2947_
> 
> _My Thorin,_
> 
> _Of all the letters I have written, I think none has been quite so difficult as this. Today, a babe came into my world, and I find myself both rapt and terrified by him... and yet undone by the path that has brought him to me. It brings me great grief to tell you, Thorin, but I resolved long ago to carry no more secrets from you, and so bitter as it will be to write (and difficult for you to hear, I fear)... I must tell you the story of Frodo Baggins..._

 

Thorin's breath is shallow, his knuckles white as he reads the words. "He has a son, then. Frodo Baggins. The burglar has moved on." Gritting his teeth, Thorin rises to throw another log onto the fire, paces around his bedchamber four or five times, and then thunks himself back down upon the floor, plucking up the paper from the dark woven rug and smoothing it out. Putting his best attempt into measured breathing, his eyes search the page again, and he begins to read once more.


	4. Chapter 4

 

> _21 March 2947_
> 
> _My Thorin,_
> 
> _Of all the letters I have written, I think none has been quite so difficult as this. Today, a babe came into my world, and I find myself both rapt and terrified by him... and yet undone by the path that has brought him to me. It brings me great grief to tell you, Thorin, but I resolved long ago to carry no more secrets from you, and so bitter as it will be to write (and difficult for you to hear, I fear)... I must tell you the story of Frodo Baggins._
> 
> _When I left Erebor, you see, I had simply determined to go on along by myself, in my own quiet way, and perhaps to plant my gardens once more, to smoke my pipe and, should time see fit, to visit with my cousin-folk and play with their faunts, when they should bring them 'round. That one such as I might come to raise a child myself never entered my waking thoughts, and so - although a little sadness lingered that I would travel my path alone - I was content enough with my lot._
> 
> _It was not so very long after my last letter to you, you see, that one of my cousins, Drogo Baggins - somewhat separated, you see - came visiting with his wife, a lovely gentlehobbit named Primula Brandybuck (whose father Gorbadock was quite the character himself, though I shall tell you of him another time, perhaps). I have, you see, become a bit... reclusive since my return to the shire; it is no fault of my own, of course, except that I cannot stand the confounded, silly company of just the sorts of fellows who have, now and then, come to pay a visit to me. It's not that they are not a good sort, you see, for they are all very good sorts (except that blasted Lobelia, confound her to the end of time!), but they themselves have taken to calling me a bit... odd. True it may well be, though I rather find myself content to be so, if it means my company is strange and my larder is kept to myself._
> 
> _Ah, but I meant to write of Frodo, and of Primula and Drogo. It so happens that they came upon me with just the babe I supposed would be the only one I might come to spoil - a child of their own, little Frodo. He was a good enough babe, though any hobbit will tell you that smallhobbits generally have sweet dispositions - and Baggins especially, I am proud to say, make fine, honorable young lads. As luck would have it, they shared the news that Frodo was already several months old, and don't you know when his birthday was, Thorin? Indeed! My own birthday, the very day. It seemed proper fate that the lad should grow up to be a very fine gentlehobbit indeed, and although I supposed great things would lay before him... I cannot have known what tumult he would come to bear, even as a little thing. Had I done so, of course, I might have spent those few days quite differently - there were picnics and dances and stories, all the stories of our adventure I shared with Drogo and his little family. I think he may have thought me queer, but he was a good hobbit and listened politely all the same._
> 
> _Their visit lasted no more than two or three days - my memory is still quite clear on this - before they set off for Buckland. I shall spare you the grim details, but it was the very next morning when word arrived of a boating accident on the Brandywine River, and although few perished, Drogo and his Primula were among them. Thank goodness that Frodo was rescued from the river, but the fright was no small thing for the babe, and I dare say he will be water-shy for long years to come._
> 
> _And that, in quite a roundabout way, is how he has come to be in my care; there was some discussion as to what would be best for the lad, but in the end (my shock is just as great as yours!) he was delivered here, to Hobbiton and Bag End and me. Were I to live as long as even Thranduil I shouldn't have expected my life to take quite this turn, but the road is winding, and mine now has a child sat in the middle of it. At first, despite our mutual interests (namely raspberry jam and apple pies and stories of intrigue and adventure), I was wary - how should I raise a child, after all, I who have neither the comfort of a help-mate nor the proper time to plan! - but in the months that have slipped around me I find it an easier thing than I suppose I could have hoped._
> 
> _He is dear to me, more every day, I think. Ever will there be an ache in my breast, a small, soft spot that is yours and yours alone, Thorin... but my little Frodo finds unexpected ways to fill the rest up, such that I think my heart must be twice as large as it was once upon a time. We are only these few months thrown together, and yet I can see some of the path ahead, and know that I should find myself willing to do anything to protect the lad. Perhaps it was so with you and Kili and Fili, I think. Perhaps one can love as a father, whether he fathered the babe or not._
> 
> _Frodo is crying now, Thorin - his appetite never ends. And so I leave you here, until our next letter, and pray that you have peace._
> 
> _Yours,_  
>  _Bilbo_

Thorin draws a slow, steady breath and lets his eyes slip closed for a moment. The fire still crackles brightly beside him, and though the letter has taken but a few moments to read, it seems to the dwarf that whole worlds have realigned themselves and time itself has been toppled on its head. When he opens his eyes... bit by bit, the king begins to smile. It's slight at first, until it spreads across his face so that pearl-white teeth reflect the glimmering light, cheeks dimple as they rise up.

"Mmm. I see," he rumbles, and reaches out to place the letter back upon the table.

In short order he is up, adjusting his belt just so, and headed to the door, tugging it open to meet a very surprised attendant with a tray laden with lunch. Thorin reaches for it and tugs it toward himself, unabashedly grinning at the man.

"Find Balin, and tell him we shall be going on a... quest."

The attendant nods dumbly, manages to get out a quiet, "And Bofur, yer Majesty?" to which Thorin's face darkens only briefly before he murmurs a few quick words and then abruptly shuts the door.

"Bofur will be dealt with when he is found - and found he'll be, I've no doubt of it. But first... we must plan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timelines here are QUITE different from those in the book, I know, and I apologize in advance if the speedier pace I've set for Frodo's arrival into Bilbo's life has been a bit alarming. My endless thanks for the tremendous feedback and the kind words so far!

**Author's Note:**

> This hasn't been beta'ed by anybody at all, and I'll admit to taking great liberties with the characters as they stumble through my imagination. I can't fathom many folks stopping in to read this little journey I'm starting, but if you have, I'm always grateful for your thoughts and feedback. 
> 
> If you happen to be one of the tumblrfolk, you can find me there at http://northwrites.tumblr.com as well - I've been posting there whenever I update (and likely will about my slightly more mainstream pieces in the future, too).


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